The Truths we Burn (The Hollow Boys Book 2)

by Monty Jay

  How is it that Rook has been the only man to ask me that question? To know by my body how badly I want him but still wants to hear the words.

  How he is the villain to everyone else, but not a single man depicted as a hero had asked for permission? Only taking, taking, taking, until there was nothing left of the old Sage.

  Rook didn’t realize it, but he is giving those pieces back to me one snarky comment at a time.

  “Yes, God, yes,” I whisper without hesitation.

  “I always knew there was a darker side to you, Sage, but not wearing panties?” he breathes onto my lips. “Who knew you were such a slut.”

  All feminism has apparently left my body, because the way he grunts that crude name makes my thighs shudder with anticipation.

  Sexual repression was something I had lived with for so long, but this?

  It feels like more of a sexual awakening.

  My legs open wider for him to get a better view of just how wet I am.

  “I didn’t want lines in my dress,” I offer.

  “Mmmhhh,” he hums as he leaves kisses along the valley of my breasts, his tongue sweeping down below the leather fabric—a warning before I feel the sharp bite through the material as he takes one of my pearled nipples into his mouth. “Admit it. You wanted someone to find you in here. All lonely, with nothing covering that pink cunt. You wanted someone to see just how exposed you were. You like it, don’t you?”

  The room begins to spin, all my senses completely tethered to him. His hands grope at my ass, using it as leverage to rock his covered length into my center. The delicious friction builds as butterflies swarm my stomach.

  God, it’s never felt this good.

  Craving more, thirsty for more than foreplay, I drop my hands to his lap. My nimble fingers work on his button and zipper. I ghost past the shadows in his jeans, feeling him, knowing he wants this just as bad as I do, but he’s refusing to help me pull his jeans off, or at least down enough so he is exposed.

  “Rook, some help?” I groan, hating how gutted I sound, how needy.

  “I’m not doing shit until you tell me what I want to hear.” His mouth continues to assault my neck and chest, the cool air making goosebumps race across my body as it hits the warm places on my throat where his wet tongue had been.

  “You want me to tell you—”

  “Confess,” he butts in, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “I want you to tell me the truth. You wanted me to find you like this, didn’t you? That you like being my dirty, fucking secret, my dirty slut. Confess all your sins to your very own devil.”

  That word again, rubbing me in all the places I never knew I needed. Being degraded, pushed beneath his metaphorical hold on me, while also chasing his approval, wanting to tell him to make him want me just as terribly as I want him.

  It’s all so fucked. So hazy.

  I would have said anything to have him inside me.

  My breath shakes as I look up from his waist, diving into his hellfire eyes that spark and sizzle in the dim light. Such a unique version of hazel that you have to wonder if his mother really did conceive him with something otherworldly.

  “I wanna be your slut, Rook,” I whisper, pressing my mouth into his for a kiss that feels like falling. My heart races inside my rib cage, thudding over and over again. “I like it.”

  The sound of fabric ripping filters into the room, and I gasp as I look down at my torn tights, a slit in the center of the already holey material.

  “My cock isn’t fitting inside those fishnet holes.” He grunts, raising his hips to shove his tight jeans down his waist enough to release himself.

  I widen my eyes, looking down as his cock rests against his stomach. My shock doesn’t come from his obvious size or the veins that climb the shaft but the four shiny metal beads that surround the head: two barbells pierced through the tip, one running vertically and the other horizontally.

  “Does that hurt?” I ask, looking up at him briefly.

  I’ve only had sex with one other person, and he was certainly not pierced.

  “Not for you.” He winks, smirking.

  I palm his length, pumping up and down slowly, just thinking of all the ways this is going to feel.

  “Tell me you’re clean.” I irresponsibly want him to say yes so that I can inform him I’m on the pill. I’ve never gone raw before, but I want to feel him.

  All of him.

  “Wouldn’t have my dick this close to your raw pussy if I wasn’t, Sage.”

  It’s all I need to hear, my body tired of waiting.

  I raise my hips, directing his cock to my entrance.

  Lowering myself onto him gradually, I feel every single inch enter me at my own pace. I whimper as I feel him stretch me open, forcing his way into my dripping walls. I can’t help but look down, watching the process. Watching how fucking good we look coming together.

  It’s almost an unbearable amount of pleasure that rides through me when I’m fully sitting on his lap. His entire length partially impales me, so deep, I can feel him in my stomach.

  Sex has always been a means to an end. An action where I shut my mind off, waiting for it to be finished.

  I never want this to stop. This is more than sex for me.

  The sound of him groaning turns my attention back to him. I desperately want a camera for this so I could capture this moment and use it years later when I’m long forgotten from his memory. It’s better than porn.

  His head and arms are thrown back over the cushion of the seat, all the veins in his tan throat bulging as he flexes his jaw, grunting out, “Goddamn.”

  I’m a live wire of sensations in this ethereal moment that I can’t fathom happening with anyone else. Eager to please him and craving release, I start to lift my hips up and down.

  That’s when I feel the full effects of his piercing.

  It rubs every inch of me on the inside, tickling that sensitive spot along with every other spot. It’s touching everywhere all at once, so many places, it’s overwhelming. I feel myself drowning his length in my juices. My limbs feel light and heavy at the same time as I roll my hips against him.

  With practiced ease, he plucks the blunt up, positioning it between his fingers and enjoying another drag while I ride him. A groan rumbles in his chest, letting me know what I’m doing is working for him just as much as it is me.

  “Little whore looks so good ridin’ my cock,” he mumbles, full of rasp, low eyes watching me through the smoke.

  My mind is horrified at my body’s betrayal. The new word of humiliation crashes over me like lava.

  Some steady R&B plays outside, my body moving to its rhythm. The beat thumps inside my stomach as I shift up, then back down his dick, taking every painfully delish inch all over again.

  Flipping the blunt between his fingers, he holds it to my lips, letting me take a hit for myself. It’s all slow motion as I inhale, letting the smoke glorify this moment even more.

  Keeping it in my chest, I lean into him, pressing my mouth onto his. Kissing each other as the smoke passes through our bodies, we share more than just vapor, more than just sex.

  We are breathing each other.

  We finish the blunt until it’s out, tossed onto the floor. My pussy is soaked, thoroughly stretched and perfected for his cock.

  Even though his movements feel hazy, my pace isn’t enough for him anymore. He let me play, but now it’s his turn. He encircles my waist, forcing me down his shaft. Our bodies scoot to the edge of the seat so that he can piston his hips into my tight hole.

  With vicious rage, he rips the front of my dress down, exposing my breasts. He doesn’t give me a moment to settle because soon my nipple is between his teeth, his soft tongue spinning circles around the pebbled bead.

  “Rook, oh my God,” I pant, sweat already sticking to my forehead.

  We move together in sync, rocking our bodies into one another. I feel every single thrust, letting our bodies slam together over and over again. My head lolls back
while my fingers bury themselves into his shoulder blades.

  “Harder,” he growls, my grip pushing him to hammer into me at a much faster speed.

  White, blinding heat sears my mind, so far gone that all I can do is follow his direction. I bore my nails into his skin, knowing soon I’ll bring blood—I have to be.

  “I’m going to come. Make me come, please,” I cry wildly, suddenly not caring if anyone walks in or hears us.

  “Beg for it. Beg me for it, whore.”

  I nod eagerly. “Please, please, Rook. God, please.”

  His hand grabs for my throat, squeezing. “God doesn’t exist here. Just me.”

  I’m aching all over. Liquid fire has been poured directly into my bloodstream, and my entire body is an all-consuming inferno as I climb higher towards my orgasm. Stars start spinning in the corner of my vision.

  I quiver, the air taken out of my lungs as ecstasy pumps in my veins. All that comes from me are shrill, broken cries as he continues to plunge, flutters and spasms racking through me. Pleasure thrums through my body, toes curling as I drift through the most intense orgasm of my life.

  “Beautiful,” he utters huskily. I’m not even sure that’s what I actually heard, too numb from bliss to truly comprehend.

  My limbs are Jell-O, my eyes shut tight as he races after his own release, pumping with ruthless thrusts that make my core tighten with indescribable pleasure. I’m in desperate need of a drink, but I can’t bring myself to stop.

  Not when he’s watching my ass bounce against his pelvis as his cock slides into my depths so fiercely. Rook’s fingers delve between my thighs, finding my clit and immediately applying pressure.

  “Wait, wait, I can’t. S-so sensitive,” I whimper, my hand shooting down to his wrist, gripping it to try and prevent him from making my entire body combust. It’s so intense that I can feel my eyes start to water.

  His fingers don’t stop, and neither do his hips, “One more. Be my good little slut, baby. One more.” He moans, his thumb speeding up to match his thrusts.

  That familiar build hits my core, a long whine falling from my lips. “Fuck, I can’t,” I mewl, but my body says otherwise, pussy tightening around him once again.

  “You can. You can because I said so.”

  And I do.

  I come again, sucking him in like a vise, so snugly he can barely push back inside of me.

  My cries are strangled as I sink into euphoria for the second time. Rook’s broken growl mixed with a moan rips from his lungs as he pushes into me farther, staying buried while he empties himself entirely.

  I’m sluggish, the high from the orgasm still clouding my brain as I drop my head onto his shoulder, feeling his breath on my moist, flushed skin. Those long eyelashes tickle the side of my face.

  I can barely feel his fingers when they start playing with my hair, twirling around the already curled strands. Each breath is full of his scent, locking me into this moment.

  I so badly want to stay in this state of elation for just a bit longer, wanting to lock that door forever and stay safely inside where Ponderosa Springs and its monsters can’t reach us.

  Instead, all there is is the gripping feeling of dread.

  Knowing I’ll have to lie to Rook about one very, crucial detail.

  We can never, be together.

  And when he finds out why?

  This secret we created is going to end in unmitigated catastrophe.

  Rook

  “No, no, you have to finish it. This is the best part!” Her hand grabs at my forearm, pulling me back down to the makeshift pallet on the floor piled with blankets she insisted she needed.

  “I’m developing cataracts the longer I sit and watch these,” I grunt, hoping when she says it’s almost over she’s telling the truth.

  The mob is going about it all wrong. If they want to torture people, they don’t need to do it with rats and knives. Black-and-white films without sound are more than enough to make someone talk, just so they could put an end to it.

  For two months, I’ve watched more movies than I have in my entire life. I’m so close to telling Sage we could watch Sixteen Candles for the third time if she turned off Charlie Chaplin.

  “Wait for it, wait for it,” she says, sinking her nails into my skin as she gets more excited. “Tomorrow the birds will sing. Be brave. Face life.” She reads the words as they appear on the crackling screen.

  The old film camera was a breath away from falling apart and hadn’t been made for clear pictures apparently. The entire time I felt like I was looking at it through a static TV.

  “That’s what we were waiting for?” I ask, raising my eyebrow with bored eyes, teasing her.

  She grins, smacking me on the chest with some force behind it. “You’re such an ass! This is golden! If only one of Charlie’s movies could be played in history, everyone would agree, City Lights is it!”

  “Quentin Tarantino would possibly disagree.”

  “Ugh, men and their bloody movies with explosive cars.” She rolls her eyes, turning her body to face me as she crosses her legs, and I prepare for what is about to come. This is a thing I’ve noticed she does, and truthfully, it isn’t the movies that bother me. I’m frustrated by the fact they don’t bother me.

  How I’ve allowed myself to sit through these, not paying attention to a single thing, just so I can watch what she’s about to do now.

  I’ve allowed myself to care.

  “This is real satire, the ability to move people without even using words, Rook! Period films didn’t need to rely on the emotional impact of color to invoke emotion, to captivate an audience. They didn’t need the crimson blood or the golden jewels. They had soft candlelight reflecting off glossy silks and satin dresses. Old Westerns, where I swear you can taste the sandy dust blowing in the wind, the sun glinting off shiny spurs, sepia-filtered cigarette smoke, and passionate embraces. People were enthralled with the motion picture, with the feelings…” She drags off, waiting for her next thought about the cinema to hit her, moving her hands in tiny circles as if she’s trying to show her brain how to speed up the process of collecting thoughts.

  “So you’re saying you’d rather watch these than The Outsiders or that one with all the school delinquents?” I offer her a line, giving her another thought to run away with.

  The bun in her hair had been tossed in is falling down her head, loose pieces bouncing as she speaks.

  “The Breakfast Club. You’d think you’d remember it by now. I’d rather not choose—I love both. But that was a different time for film altogether. The fact that up until me you’d never even watched some of these is a tragedy, an actual tragedy. Old Hollywood is the foundation for every movie made since the age died out. They can change lives and shape societies. I mean, Jaws birthed an entire generation terrified of the water and gave them a fear they’ll carry with them forever. A low-budget horror movie made one of the greatest directors of all time a household name. Speaking of low-budget, Rocky, a monumental franchise to just about anyone with eyeballs, was only made for a million dollars and went on to win Best Picture! Do you not see the power of a great story? Of a great movie?” She waits for me with bated breath to answer, not even realizing how she is rambling. Behind this lake house, she’s spoken more about the things she’s passionate about than she has in her entire life.

  I take my bottom lip into my mouth, tasting the dried blood from earlier with my father, and look her over in my t-shirt and stripey leggings.

  Her usual fashionable skirts and matching blouses are nowhere to be seen. In their place is whatever shirt I’d worn that day. I love getting to strip her down out of those statement pieces to a matching panty-and-bra set.

  I’d spent all of this time noticing little things about her. Learning her.

  Still not understanding the reason behind having her nails the same color for a whole month before changing it.

  “So movies, the scripts, that’s the future for you, yeah? LA? Hollywood?”
r />   She breathes, looking over at the rolling credits. “The scripts are for theatre, which is an entirely different love for me. I adore being onstage, embodying a character’s emotions. Chameleon myself into whatever the play needs me to be. I’d love to do that in college, ya know? Get my degree, then graduate and maybe shift to on-screen acting, eventually reaching the point of making my own films or at the very least directing.”

  There is a sadness in her voice, one I’ve come to recognize every time she speaks about what lies ahead of her in the future. Like she’ll never do it, like she isn’t capable.

  This place had taken her and clipped her wings before she even knew she had them.

  “Sure, I could go to New York, fall in love with Broadway. Make a career directing in the concrete jungle. But no matter how hard it tries, New York isn’t Hollywood. There is no Walk of Fame or years of history embedded in the golden ages. Everyone is an actress or a filmmaker there, but actually doing it? Succeeding at it? What other dream could you have?”

  Two months I’ve spent sitting here, watching her, learning her, listening to her. Hating myself for every second I enjoy it. Why do I deserve to enjoy anything? Especially someone like Sage.

  When I met her, I had the preconceived notion that she was as cruel on the inside as she was on the outside. A fun little challenge to roll around with in the sheets, a girl who would hate me as much as I hate myself.

  Instead, I found a girl who’d been buried alive in the expectations of others, and every day we spend together, she uncovers herself more and more.

  She’s turning into what I don’t need, making me feel things I have no right to feel.

  What right do I have to see her like this? Happy, babbling on, and vulnerable. I’ve done nothing good in my life to merit this.

  I did not earn happiness like this, and taking it feels wrong. It doesn’t feel right.

  But giving it up, saying no to it? That feels fucking worse.

  “What? What are you looking at?” she asks me, making me realize I had been staring.